The Consequences. Colette Freedman

      Wednesday, 25th December

      Christmas Day

      It was almost two in the morning when she finally gave in and realized that she wasn’t going to sleep.

      Stephanie sat up in bed, pulled the heavy embroidered quilt up to her chin, and looked around the tiny room: a surreal piece of déjà vu. This was the room she slept in through her entire childhood. It was more or less identical to the room she left fifteen years earlier, and it looked as if her mother had deliberately set out to keep it that way. Costumed dolls from every country in the world faced her from the deep shelf across the room. She’d never really collected them, but every birthday and most Christmases her mother or an aunt would give her another blank-faced doll dressed in an intricate homemade, hand-stitched ethnic costume. They were always too delicate, too “special” to be played with, and Stephanie quickly grew to loathe the dolls. Below them were two shelves of books and, even in the gloom, she knew she would find Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Dr. Seuss, alongside about three generations of ink-splotched schoolbooks and a collection of Mad magazines. As with the dolls, she had never really liked the magazines, but her father used to buy them for her every month, and she hadn’t the heart to disappoint him. In the corner, just as scary as she remembered it, was the rocking horse that her grandfather had hand-carved from a solid piece of elm. He had then lovingly painted the horse, and Stephanie knew if she climbed out of bed and examined its belly, she would see her name scratched into the wood. Really the only things missing were the intricate and ornate doll’s house—given away to one of her nieces—and the posters that had once adorned the walls.

      The house was a decent size, but with so many siblings, Stephanie was always surprised that she had gotten her own room. The basement had been converted into an enormous, almost dorm-like room that her two oldest brothers Billy and Little Matt had shared. Now, it was called the grandkids’ quarters—where anyone under the age of adulthood slept and played. Growing up, Joan and CJ shared the room down the hall from Stephanie, across from their parents, and Jack and Christopher shared the large attic.

      Stephanie swung her legs out of bed. The floorboards were warm and smooth beneath her bare feet. Taking the quilt with her as she got off the bed, she padded over to the window and rubbed her hand on the glass to peer out into the night. It was snowing: huge silent flakes that reminded her of her childhood and, for a moment, made her feel safe.

      She wondered—fleetingly—what it must be like in Boston.

      She pulled the quilt protectively around her shoulders and wandered out into the hall. She needed some water. She’d had a headache and stomach cramps ever since she’d gotten off the plane, and although the cramps had eased, the headache had never quite gone away. She could feel it pulsing now, throbbing dully behind her eyes.

      The house lights were still on, but turned to dim, in case any of her nephews or nieces needed to go upstairs to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Her entire family was home for Christmas: her four brothers, Billy, Little Matt, Jack, and Chris, and her two sisters, CJ and Joan. With the exception of herself and Joan, everyone had arrived with partners, and her brothers had brought their children.

      She reckoned that tomorrow—no, today, Christmas Day—was going to be that special nightmare that is a family Christmas.

      She wandered downstairs, suddenly feeling incredibly guilty. She became the six-year-old girl sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to see if Santa Claus had come. She remembered being devastated when she had discovered the truth about Santa. That was the moment when her innocence was shattered, and she began to look at the world through a more pragmatic lens. She paused at the door to the living room and looked in. The only light came from the fat wax candle burning in the window and the glowing red and gray ash from the fire, with the occasional spark spiraling upward. It looked almost magical. And Stephanie was suddenly glad circumstances had forced her to come home. While her mother looked exactly the same, her father was definitely aging, and with that thought came the realization that time was slipping by and every Christmas could be their last one.

      The door to her father’s study was partially open, and she peered inside. It was a room she’d always loved. One of her earliest memories as a very young girl was of standing at the doorway, staring into the dark cavern of the room, awed by the books that lined every wall, from floor to ceiling. Now there were piles of newspapers scattered around the floor; despite the advent of the Internet, Matt liked to read articles in newspapers before cutting them out and putting them in innumerable folders he’d store in the closet. Regardless of Toni’s constant complaining that her husband was a hoarder and his room was a fire hazard, Matt took no notice. He had published several academic books and was considered one of the leading scholars in his field. He was happy with his “system” and refused to cave to technology. He used the computer to communicate with his students, to Skype his grandchildren, and to do research, but he refused to read articles online and even regifted the Kindle that Jack had bought him the previous year.

      The room was dominated by a spectacularly ugly slab of a desk, carved by the same Grandfather Burroughs who had created the rocking horse. Behind the desk stood her father’s high-backed leather armchair. The red leather was cracked in places now, some of the studs were missing, and the two arms were polished smooth by years of use. When Stephanie was growing up, she used to find comfort in the clicking keys of her father’s old, battered Smith Corona; however, ten years earlier it had been replaced by an iMac. The computer was still on. A vibrant aquarium screensaver was active, colorful tropical fish swimming lazily through coral reefs.

      On impulse, Stephanie slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. She purposely hadn’t checked her e-mail for hours and, although she very much doubted she’d have anything other than junk mail, she decided she’d grab the opportunity just in case anything important had come in.

      And